


Brosca Babies: An Introduction

by thecryoftheseagulls



Series: Zeryn Brosca [13]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Babies, F/M, Fluff, Morning Sickness, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecryoftheseagulls/pseuds/thecryoftheseagulls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after the Blight, Zeryn Brosca and Alistair are happily married and living in Orlais. Zeryn has morning sickness and the couple finds out they are going to have a baby.</p><p>Update: due to events of Inquisition, I've altered my headcanon somewhat for what Zeryn's pregnancy would look like, so this story has become something of an au (as has it's sequel fic, Snapshots). I'll eventually getting around to rewriting them to fit new events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brosca Babies: An Introduction

This time, Zeryn makes it to the chamber pot _before_ she retches violently. She groans, clutching the edges of the pot so tightly that the metal cuts sharply into her calloused hands. There’s the clicking of claws on wood and a low whine, and then Cailan is pressed up against her side, his graying muzzle nosing her under the chin.

“Tits of the ancestors, dog, a little space would be helpful,” she growls, shoving at Cailan forcibly. He doesn’t budge, ignoring the half-assed attempt at a command to slobber up one side of Zeryn’s cheek. Zeryn sighs, rocks back on her heels and scrubs the back of her hand across her mouth, grimacing at the foul taste left in her mouth and the distinct odor of mabari in her nostrils. Her stomach curdles again. “It just me, or do you smell worse than usual, boy?”

Cailan gives an affronted growl. The bed creaks behind them.

“Zeryn?” Alistair’s voice is heavy with sleep, but still manages to sound alarmed. She glances back, throwing her arm over Cailan to steady herself. Alistair sits on the edge of the bed, wearing only trousers and his pillow-hair and frowning.

“I’m fine, love, just a little queas-“ Zeryn’s stomach flips and she can feel an acidic burn surging up her throat before she finishes the reassurance. She dry-heaves over the chamber pot, her stomach now completely empty. Alistair is at her side, rubbing soothing circles over her back before she feels well enough to sit up again. “Stone take it!” she mutters, sagging against him, now propped up by Cailan on one side and Alistair on the other.

“You are decidedly _not_ fine,” Alistair fumes, brushing her red hair back from her face and wrapping his arm around her back. “You’ve been sick off and on for three weeks, and you’re never sick.”

“It’ll pass,” Zeryn leans her forehead against Alistair’s shoulder and takes a deep breath. His scent, too, is stronger than normal – sweat and dog and straw and musk – and she wrinkles her nose against it and pushes her fist against the pain in her stomach.

Alistair scoffs just as Cailan lets out a snort from her other side.

“You see, even the dog agrees with me. You’re not fine, and it’s not passing, and we are going to see the doctor today.”

“Alist-”

“Nope, no argument from you, my dear. You’re going whether I have to carry you over my shoulder or not. Though from the looks of things we’d both be happier if _that_ weren’t necessary.”

Zeryn pulls a face at him, and he cups her cheek in his hand.

“I’m serious, Zeryn. It would do a lot for my peace of mind-” Cailan woofs, “and the dog’s if we’re being honest – if you would just go.”

“Fine! Maker, boys, _fine_. I’ll go.” She stands shakily, gives them both a displeased glare that once would have terrorized legions of darkspawn. But familiarity, or time, or some combination of the two means that her dog and her husband just give her equally bemused looks.

“Cute when she’s angry, don’t you think?” Alistair says conversationally to the Mabari, who tips his head up and studies Zeryn as if deliberating, then gives the high-pitched bark that serves as a yes.

Zeryn throws up her hands and leaves the room, muttering under her breath. “’m the first blasted person to slay an archdemon in four hundred years you twats. People fear me, dammit.”

***

That afternoon, Zeryn perches on the edge of an examination table and tries not to scowl at the silver-haired Orlesian doctor before her. Alistair stands at her side with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Consistent nausea, vomiting, you say?” The doctor purses his lips and hovers closer to Zeryn than she really would like. “When did this start?”

“At least three weeks ago,” Alistair says.

“Any other symptoms of note? Loss of appetite, perhaps?”

“Well when I can’t keep anything down it certainly lessens the motivation to eat.” Zeryn glowers. Alistair elbows her in the side and she turns her frown on him.

“Tenderness in the breasts?”

“…yes, actually,” Zeryn says, turning back to the doctor.

“Anything else? Heightened sense of smell, or dizziness, or even perhaps a certain…variation in mood, temperament?”

“Wellll she _has_ been irritable lately. More so than usual, at any rate.”

“Alistair!” Zeryn exclaims, sounding precisely that. He smirks at her, raises his eyebrows as if to say ‘Seeeee?’ and she glares.

“Your last flow was when, exactly, Madame Brosca?”

“Um. I’m not sure; it’s not exactly regular. Never has been.”

“That would be before Blythe Beaurain’s party, dear, as I recall,” Alistair chimes in.

“Oh maker’s co- um. Yes, he’s right. That would have been…what, six weeks ago?” Zeryn glances at Alistair and he nods.

“Ah yes. Well then. It is a simple diagnosis, madame. You are without a doubt with child.” The doctor rearranges half-moon spectacles on his nose and adds, “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”

There’s a long moment in which Zeryn just stares at the doctor. Alistair gives a sharp intake of breath but doesn’t say anything, and finally Zeryn clears her throat. “Excuse me, what. Did you just say…what I think you just said?”

“Yes, yes,” the doctor bobs his head up and down affably. “It is a great day for the Heroes of Ferelden, no? A joyous occasion, the conception of a child.”

Zeryn swallows. “But that’s not…that’s not _possible_ ,” she protests weakly, feeling like she might be sick again.

“Oh, I assure you it is, madame. Somewhat rare, half-dwarven children, but certainly not unheard of. Quite possible. Certain, in this case.”

“I…” Zeryn puts a hand to her head. The room is spinning around her, and everything smells like dust and healing herbs and there’s no air; she can’t _breathe_. Her stomach lurches and suddenly she’s on her feet; she’s out the door, Alistair’s concerned call only a quiet buzzing in the background.

***

Zeryn comes back to herself in the middle of one of the low pedestrian bridges half a mile away. She braces herself on the stone railing, clenching her hands into fists to keep them from shaking, and stares into the center of the stream below her, breathing heavily. Cailan is sitting at her feet, watching her intently, and the only thought in her head is _No no no no no no no_ , a disbelieving refrain of sheer panic.

“Zeryn!” Alistair’s voice is a bellow, sharp with fear, when he comes running after her moments later. He grabs her immediately, wraps his brawny arms around her tightly and buries his nose in her hair. “Maker’s breath, love, don’t – don’t scare me like that. What’s gotten into you?”

Zeryn’s hands slowly come up to grasp at Alistair’s arms and she gasps, “I can’t – I can’t – Alistair, I _cannot_ be having a child.”

He loosens his grip just enough that he can look at her more properly and raises a brow. “Whyever not?”

“I – I – we’ve _talked_ about this.”

“Yes, you said you didn’t really want children, and I was fine with that. But that was – Maker, Zeryn, that was ten years ago now. Does the very idea still bother you so much?”

She shakes her head wildly. “You don’t understand, any child of mine…”

“Would be the darling of Ferelden and Orzammar alike, and anywhere else we wanted to go.” Alistair frowns, chewing on his lip, and runs his thumb over the mark on her cheek. She flinches. “This is not about _this_ , is it? You know you’re not casteless anymore, love. Your daughter wouldn’t – won’t - be either. Benefits of saving the world and all that. You’re a living Paragon, remember?”

Zeryn looks at him with wide eyes, and her panicked breathing starts to slow.

“That’s it, it’s all right,” Alistair murmurs. “You’re all right, love. No need to throw yourself in the river to save our unborn child from a terrible fate as an outcast and pariah. None of that.” He chuckles, but the sound is pained until Zeryn huffs a laugh in return. “There.” He kisses her forehead and wraps his arms around her even more loosely. Zeryn reaches up to thread her fingers in the hair on the nape of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice small.

“For…what? Leaving me to settle with the doctor alone? Making me chase after you across the city like an incensed bronto? Nah, it’s fine, fine. That’s what husbands are for, yes?”

She slaps his chest lightly and he chuckles, captures her small hand in his larger one, says, “You know I’d chase you anywhere, dear. No getting rid of me.”

Zeryn stretches on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips. She sighs.

“I don’t know the first thing about being a mother, Alistair. I’m as liable to break a baby as nurture it. Andraste’s ashes, I – what if I’m terrible at it?”

“Well, you’ve managed me terribly well this far, and I’ve been told I’m quite the baby myself.”

She smirks, whacks him again. “I’m being serious here!”

“In all seriousness then, my lady, you almost single-handedly raised an army, stopped a Blight, slayed a few dragons, managed an estate all on your own when I was off here in Orlais, and have since managed to put up with me in peacetime for near a decade. I’m thoroughly convinced there’s nothing you _can’t_ do. A baby should be a walk in the park.”

When Zeryn looks away, Alistair takes her chin in hand and turns her head back to look at him. “You’re not your mother, Zeryn. You never have been. And you won’t be alone.”

Zeryn searches his eyes earnestly for a long moment and then sighs again. She flicks his ear.

“I am going to fail at this miserably,” she says, “and then you will only have yourself to blame. This is a disaster in the making.”

“Well nobody’s perfect.” Alistair teases. When she sticks out her tongue obstinately, he kisses her again, says, “You’ll be a bloody superb mother, you can’t convince me otherwise. And frankly my dear, any child of yours is a gift from what gods may be I will cherish.”


End file.
